Page 3 of Do Not Awaken Love (The Moroccan Empire #3)

Let my beloved come into his garden, and eat his pleasant fruits.

“ O nce again, you have shown yourself a true bride of Christ, Sister Juliana,” says the Mother Superior as the pilgrim leaves us, bowing and promising that he will praise my name at every footstep from here to Santiago de Compostela, for without my knowledge of herbs he might well have died before ever reaching his holy destination.

I bow my head over the mortar and pestle. “I was only doing my duty,” I say. “It is God’s hand that cured him.”

Mother Superior nods. “Indeed. But I have had to speak with some of the youngest sisters for their… unnecessary attention to that young man. I am afraid that in their youth and inexperience, they have been swayed by his name and fortune. As well as his looks,” she adds, getting to the real cause for her concern.

She sighs. “Temptation is everywhere, Sister.”

“Yes, Reverend Mother,” I say, carefully pouring the ground cinnamon into its container, its sweet smell scenting the air around us.

The bark of the tree is very hot in nature and is good for banishing ill humours, therefore despite its expense I use it frequently to dose my sisters, that their humours may be good.

“And yet you were not led astray,” says the Mother Superior with satisfaction. “It shows both your maturity and devotion to God and does you credit.”

“Thank you, Reverend Mother,” I say.

She looks around my stillroom, at all my remedies. The careful script marking each little bottle and jar, the cleanliness and order. “You are a credit to the name you took when you joined us,” she adds.

I think of Saint Juliana, patron of the sick, a devoted Christian who refused to marry a pagan husband and was scarred for her disobedience. “I have not had to face her tribulations,” I say. “I have been well treated here, Reverend Mother.”

She pats my shoulder. “You have worked hard ever since you were a child and your skill with the sick is your reward, by which you serve God,” she says.

She stands for a moment but does not leave, gazing out of the window at my neat beds of herbs in the garden, as though turning something over in her mind.

“I have a task for you,” she says at last. “You are to leave the convent and travel beyond Santiago de Compostela, to the coast at A Lanzada, to collect a novice, a girl named Catalina. Her father is ill, and she cannot travel alone. You will be accompanied by Alberte.”

“The stable hand? He does not have his full wits about him, Reverend Mother.”

“He is obedient and strong,” says the Mother Superior a little reproachfully. “We all have different gifts, given to us by God. You will also be accompanied by Sister Maria, so that there can be no impropriety in your travelling with a man.”

“Yes, Reverend Mother,” I say obediently, although privately I think that Sister Maria is a poor choice for a companion on a journey away from the convent.

She is altogether too worldly for my liking, speaking often of life in the outside world as though it is something to be longed for, not grateful to be set apart from.

“I am entrusting you with this task because of your dedication to our convent,” says the Mother Superior.

“I know that you will not be swayed in your faith by seeing the world outside our walls, that you will provide an example to our novice as she journeys here, to view entering our convent as a homecoming, rather than a loss of her childhood freedom.”

I stand a little straighter. “Yes, Reverend Mother,” I say.

“It is so exciting to be out in the world!” says Sister Maria on the morning when we set out.

I watch Alberte hoist her up into the saddle. Being both short and plump she is unable to mount alone. Her horse is skittish and once she is seated, Alberte bows his head to the mare’s muzzle and whispers to her, stroking her neck to calm the beast.

“It is an honour to bring home a young soul who is destined for the spiritual life,” I say.

Sister Maria beams at me as Alberte adjusts her stirrups. “I am sure our Reverend Mother has seen great qualities of devotion in you,” she says without jealousy. “Perhaps she sees a future for you as a Mother Superior yourself and this journey is a mark of her favour.”

I put a foot in my stirrup and lift myself into the saddle in one move.

“You should not say such things, for I have no expectations,” I say.

“The service I give in the infirmary is all that I desire.” I know that this is not quite true and note that I will need to do penance for the little burst of pride her words gave me, the thought that this journey, if well carried out, might lead to possible future elevation within our community.

Sister Maria is not in the least abashed.

She readjusts her habit so that it falls more gracefully from her high seat.

“Bless you, Alberte,” she says, looking down at the stable hand with an undiminished smile.

“You have an affinity with horses; they listen to you. The Lord has given you a gift.” She is always free and easy with her compliments to those about her.

I suppose she means well, although she may not realise that such comments can lead to the sin of pride in others.

“We must make a start,” I say to them both. “We cannot waste time.”

I feel a little anxious as we make our way through the gates of the convent and out into the open farmland that surrounds us.

I have not left these walls except for brief walks to forage for plants since I came here as a child, excepting very occasionally to tend to a local noblewoman.

To look back and see the convent recede into the distance is unnerving.

Alberte’s expression is mostly blank, although he murmurs to his horse from time to time and I note that he watches the birds as they fly past. He is a good-natured lad, I suppose, it is not his fault that he was born with a simple mind.

He works hard and is obedient enough. Sister Maria, of course, cannot be relied upon to maintain an appropriate silence.

“The crops are doing well this year,” she announces to no-one in particular. “I believe we will be able to give thanks for a generous harvest.”

As I recall Sister Maria came to us from farming stock, so it is no wonder she interests herself in such matters. I do not reply, hoping that she will recollect in due course that we should obey the rule of silence, since there is no need to speak. My hopes are not met.

“Good morning!” she cries when we pass a farmer and his children in a wagon, on their way to work in the fields.

“Good morning, Sisters,” he returns politely. “I wish you a pleasant journey.”

I bow my head but do not answer, while Sister Maria beams down at his children.

“May the Lord bless you,” she says as they trundle slowly by.

She twists her head to watch them. “Ah, Sister Juliana,” she says.

“I know we are blessed to live a holy life, but I do sometimes think that it would have been a great joy to bear children.”

“There is no greater joy than to serve God,” I remind her a little sharply, but she does not look in the least humbled.

“There is joy in all walks of life,” she says. “For God is in our hearts, whatever work we turn our hands to.”

“Perhaps we may think on that blessing in silence,” I say and at last Sister Maria stills her tongue for a little while.

With Alberte’s orders to stick to a brisk but dignified pace, we reach the outskirts of Santiago de Compostela itself in three days, riding alongside pilgrims making their way to the holy shrine.

I must remind Sister Maria on an irritatingly frequent basis to restrict her conversation with those whom we pass.

We sleep each night in welcoming houses of God, so that we can be assured of safety and of being watched over by a holy presence, in silence and comfort.

I feel a small pang on the fourth day that we cannot visit the great city and pray in the cathedral, but it will only slow us down.

There are still two more days’ journey to go and so we pass by the city walls in the distance and continue on our journey, following the River Ulla down its southern side as it widens out into the Arousa Estuary.

“The sea!” exclaims Sister Maria.

“God be praised,” I say. “We are almost at our destination.”

“I have never been to the sea,” says Sister Maria, almost standing in her stirrups to look farther ahead, shading her eyes.

“We are not here to sightsee,” I tell her, but she and Alberte pay no attention, exclaiming together over every little thing they notice as we reach the coastline and the small village of A Lanzada.

The sound of the waves lapping, the white-gold sand and the deep blue shade of the sea all catch their attention and it is left entirely to me to seek out the right household.

“I thought it would be bigger,” says Alberte, looking a little forlorn at the sight of the huddled houses along the shoreline. Seagulls scream overhead. I have only ever seen them rarely, when the weather at sea is bad and they come inland to screech in the convent’s fields.

“It is not the size of the village that matters to us, but that it chooses to give up one of its daughters to our holy life,” I remind him.

“Is that the hermitage?” asks Sister Maria.

A rocky outcrop jutting into the sea from the shoreline holds a tiny building, like a miniature church, with a large tower to one side.

“Yes,” I say. “We will give thanks there for our peaceful journey here and again when we leave with the girl, that we may have a safe journey home.”

“What is the tower for?” wonders Sister Maria.

I do not answer her, for a boy has run up to greet us.

“Have you come for Catalina?”

I look down into his wide eyes. “I am Sister Juliana of the Convent of the Sacred Way,” I tell him. “I and my Sister Maria here have come to take Catalina home.”

The boy looks puzzled. “This is her home,” he says.